Paparazzi
by ThessalyMc
Summary: A week before the fall, John and Greg are having a pub night. Greg explains to John why the paparazzi are waiting for him outside. Rated Kplus for language.


**A/N: All the chocolate to sevenpercent :)**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

John scowled angrily when he caught sight of the man outside the pub, notebook in hand, camera hanging around his neck. At least there was only one of them out there tonight. He turned back his back to the window resolutely, giving his companion a speculative look.

"All right, Greg. Tell me. What do you see when you look at us?"

"When I look at you?" Greg asked, putting his half-drunk pint down on the table.

"Sherlock and me," John clarified.

"Is this about the tabloids?"

"And the staff at every restaurant in London, and the Yarders, and the little old ladies in the park," John muttered with disgust, taking a long pull at his beer. "Bleeding paparazzi. How the hell did _I_ end up with paparazzi?"

"Ignore them, John."

"Tell me that again tomorrow, after they've printed your picture inset in one of Sherlock and me with some headline about 'trouble in paradise.'" John groused.

"All right, I will."

"Why are people so bloody interested in us, anyway?" John demanded. "I can understand the stories about the cases we solve, but why are they so determined to out us as a gay couple? Which we're not, by the way."

"Whatever," Greg said, waving away John's protest.

"Really? Sodding 'whatever?' Do we look like a couple to you?"

"Honestly? Yes. But before you go getting your knickers in a twist, John," Greg said, holding up a hand to forestall John's spluttering, "looking like a couple has nothing to do with whether or not you're bending him over the kitchen table. That's just sex. That isn't what makes you a couple."

"Oh, God," John groaned, rubbing his forehead roughly, as though trying to physically scrub the thought of the kitchen table out of his head. "Funny, that isn't what the rest of the world seems to think. All they care about is whether or not we're shagging."

"Yeah, well, they're idiots."

John couldn't help the giggle that escaped as Greg mimicked Sherlock's intonation. His attempt to smother the laughter failed when Greg caught his eye and tried to imitate Sherlock's smirk as well. John lifted his pint to tap Greg's glass as they chuckled together.

"Seriously, though, why do they care?"

"Because they're jealous, John," Greg said, rolling his eyes. "And to think I rely on you to interpret human emotion and motivation to Sherlock."

"Jealous?"

"Yes, jealous. They're all jealous. Hell, _I'm_ jealous."

"You're not serious."

"He's right. You are an idiot."

"He calls you an idiot more often than he does me."

"And I've never said he was wrong about it."

John groaned. "All right, fine. I'm an idiot. But … What is there to be jealous of? The violin screeching at 3 in the bloody morning? Body parts in various states of decomposition stashed in every kitchen appliance? Always getting stuck paying for the cab? All the lovely terms of endearment?"

Greg sighed. "Okay, then. Which do you want first – why the women are jealous, or why the men are jealous?"

"How about why you're jealous."

"Later."

"Fine, then. Why are women jealous?"

"You do have eyes, right? You've actually _seen_ Sherlock? And maybe caught a glimpse of yourself in a mirror?"

"Greg ..."

"No, I'm serious. You two are attractive blokes, and it doesn't make me gay to acknowledge it, either. It just means I've sized up the competition. As long as he doesn't open his mouth, if Sherlock is in the room, no man stands a chance."

"Bloody cheekbones."

"So you have noticed," Greg said, chuckling at John's scowl.

"All right, fine. But looks aren't everything. He's still a prat. An arrogant, pompous, bloody _rude_ tosser."

"That he is, and it's bizarrely attractive, too."

"What?"

"They see him as damaged, and they want to fix him."

"Damaged? Fix him?" John didn't try to hide how offensive he found the idea. "Sherlock is a mad bastard, but he is not … _broken_." His disgust was evident.

John glared at Greg, who stared back, saying nothing, one eyebrow quirked up. He was clearly amused. After a moment John let out a bark of laughter, realizing that he was defending Sherlock's abrasiveness.

"No, he's not broken," Greg agreed. "How about … wild? Because what they really want is to be the one to tame him."

John shook his head, clearly not any happier with this image of Sherlock. "And this explains their jealousy, how, exactly?"

"Because it's clear that you have been … mellowing him."

"First he's broken, then he's an animal, and now he's what? Wine? You haven't drunk enough to mix that many metaphors."

"Sod off," Greg replied, grinning. "Whatever he is, you are making him better. They know how they would do that, and they make the assumption that you're their proxy. You're getting it because they can't."

"They think I'm shagging Sherlock because he may, just possibly, be slightly more civil?"

"If you think he's only 'slightly' more civil, you're delusional."

"That bad?"

"You've no idea."

"So, they've decided that I'm responsible for Sherlock's change in behavior, that it's because we're involved, and they're jealous."

"That's about the size of it, yeah."

"That's … mental."

"Sounds about right. This is you and Sherlock we're discussing, after all."

"And the men? They're not interested in … gentling … Sherlock," John asked. "They're not, are they?"

"No," Greg said with exaggerated patience. "They're jealous of how far you trust each other."

"Come again?"

"Have you got any idea what people would give to have someone in their lives who has always, always got their back? You've got that, you lucky bastard. Sure, you two bicker and squabble and fight, but when it comes down to it, you make sure that the bullet with his name on it doesn't find him. You take out the shooter, or you take the bullet. Every time."

"So the whole world is jealous, _you_ are jealous, because we protect each other?" John shook his head. "You have people who protect you. People who would kill for you, or throw themselves in front of a bullet for you."

"That's different."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. That's duty."

John opened his mouth to protest.

"I know you know what I mean," Greg said. "You were a soldier. You understand how to take a life or take a bullet. For duty. For Queen and country."

"It's not that cut-and-dried, Greg. They were my friends, too."

"I'm sure they were. I'm just saying that with Sherlock, it's _only_ friendship that motivates you. And it's only friendship that motivates him – you know bloody well that the concept of duty goes right over his head."

John snorted, agreeing.

"I'd stop the bullet with your name on it, too, Greg. You know that, right?"

"Ta," Greg replied with a smile. "I also know that you'd do it for the little old ladies at the park who are cooing over you and Sherlock, or the bartender over there, or … Anderson. Even for the bloody photographer outside."

"Not what I meant," John said, shaking his head.

"I know what you meant. I'm gratified to hear that duty wouldn't be the only thing moving you to action. But it would be part of it, and that's okay. I'm unlikely to argue about your motivations after you've saved my arse."

John frowned, considering, then gave a sharp nod.

"But why," he asked after a minute, "are the tabloids so intent on making this out to be a sexual relationship?"

"Because sex sells newspapers, which is what they're trying to do, after all. So they paint your faith in each other and your ability to influence his behavior in a romantic light. Romance means intimacy means sex. Obviously then, you're gay."

"Obviously," John said with a groan. "Just when did you become a shrink?"

"Sensitivity training, last week."

"Of course," John laughed. "My round?"

Greg nodded, grinning, and tipped back the last of his pint.


End file.
